


Possession

by marmaladeSkies



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Monsterfucking, Other, Possession, Rodrigue is one hundred percent done with this shit, Tentacles, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmaladeSkies/pseuds/marmaladeSkies
Summary: Rodrigue gets a visitor in the form of his son’s childhood friend. But Sylvain’s not the one at the helm...
Relationships: Lance of Ruin/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier/Lance of Ruin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktenologious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktenologious/gifts).



> Sylvain is not in control of his own body and has no say in what is happening to him, hence the Rape/Non-Con tag. You should absolutely skip this one if that bothers you. You have been duly warned.

It was a late night in Garreg Mach but Rodrigue was too busy to sleep. There was never a resting moment during times of war, even during the lulls between battle. _Especially_ during the lulls between battle. Their supply chain had to be maintained, which meant negotiating between the merchant associations that had the will and ability to help them. That meant paperwork. Lots of paperwork.

The monastery’s usual supplier was losing caravans to bandits and was requesting help getting rid of them. In the meantime they had to raise prices to make up for their losses. Their backup was cheap, but unreliable, and the origin of their goods was suspect. Rodrigue wouldn’t mind much if the smugglers were taking their goods from Adrestria- the less their enemy had, the better- but it was just as likely that the food brought in had been stolen from their own allies.

Rodrigue was just figuring out how many troops would be needed to rout the bandits when a sharp, three-part knock came at his door.

On the other side of the door was Sylvain, bags under his eyes and a forced smile on his face. The Lance of Ruin was cradled in his arms like a lost child.

Rodrigue knew what was going on. It wasn’t the first time Sylvain had come seeking familiar company after the throes of a nightmare, and it wouldn’t be the last. Miklan was usually the ultimate cause. The man had been dead for five years, yes, but nightmares rarely cared about reality.

“Come in,” he said, opening the door wider. 

The young man did so, walking the perimeter of the room before sitting down on his bed. 

“Do you feel up to setting down the Lance?” Rodrigue asked, pulling up his chair to sit across from him.

“No.” 

It wasn’t Sylvain’s voice.

It was a soft, creaky voice, the voice of someone who hadn’t spoken in a very long time and wasn’t quite sure how the process worked anymore. It was a voice that spoke rarely and with much hesitation, as if dragging words from the distant depths of its mind was as difficult as dragging boulders from a quarry.

It was a voice that Rodrigue had last heard long ago, when he and the now-Margrave Quentin Gautier had been young fools eager to make their mark on Faerghus, when the bickering of nobles had still had a veneer of simplicity and they could pretend there were only two sides to every conflict. They, and Lambert too, had spent many sleepless nights trying to root out the forces of corrupt nobles and traitors to the church, their Relics clutched to their sides, before they realized how useless it all was.

In those days, it had been rare, but not unheard of, for one or more of them to wake up as _someone else._

Every time he tried to talk sense into Dimitri, it was with the desperate hope that it was indeed Dimitri he was speaking to and not the lance he refused to part with. So far, that had been the case; he knew Areadbhar’s voice well enough to know this for sure. Felix was safe. He barely touched the Aegis shield, and certainly never touched it with that specific mix of desperation and sleep deprivation that made it so easy for the Relics to slip in.

But Sylvain, though...

“Fraldarius,” gasped the weapon wearing Sylvain’s skin.

“It’s been a while,” Rodrigue said. Thirty years, in fact. After his adventuring days ended and he took control of the Duchy, he’d spent less and less time on the field and more and more time at his desk, and the same had gone for King and Margrave both. And during the one time that could have enticed the Relics to come alive, the campaign in Sreng, he’d been apart from his old friends. He’d seen the Margrave and the Lance of Ruin all of once, and the Margrave had been the one in charge of his body.

“Fraldarius,” the Lance of Ruin repeated. Sylvain’s body walked over and climbed up into his lap, the tip of the lance smacking into the surface of Rodrigue’s desk and knocking over a cup of long-cold tea. The hand not holding a dragonbone weapon reached behind him and patted the place on his back where, a long time ago, a shield had been carried. 

“Where?” whispered the Relic in his ear.

“Not here,” Rodrigue answered. “It has a new wielder.” He was never sure how much the Relics actually _understood,_ but he and Lambert had both agreed it was best to answer as if they understood everything.

At least _some_ part of what he’d said had apparently gotten through, because the Lance of Ruin became agitated. Reddish-black goop welled up from between Sylvain’s hand and the Lance itself and dripped onto Rodrigue’s lap, thick as tar and just as likely to stain. Drops of thinner ooze leaked from Sylvain’s eyes and ran down his cheeks in a foul mimicry of tears. A noise like howling wind tore through Sylvain’s throat.

No. This was stopping here. Rodrigue had seen and, unfortunately, experienced what happened when a Relic ran its host too hard, and he wasn’t going to let that happen to Sylvain. Even if meant doing something drastic.

He cautiously stretched his neck up and nudged lips with Sylvain, gauging the level of interest in going further. When the Relic didn’t lash out at him, he pressed harder, laying a row of kisses on Sylvain’s open mouth.

The howling stopped, but Rodrigue couldn’t be sure if it was because the Lance had been startled out of whatever passed for a mental breakdown in a living weapon or if it was simply because it had run out of breath.

Just in case, he pressed on, nudging his tongue between Sylvain’s lips. After a moment, the Relic responded in kind.

Ooze flooded into his mouth along with the tongue, as cloying and metallic as blood. It slid down his throat, forcing itself down his windpipe. Rodrigue burst into a fit of violent coughing as his lungs desperately tried to expel the intruder. The ooze paused, retreated, and instead started flowing around his tongue. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief as that moment of panic subsided into a much more manageable sense of trepidation.

More ooze spread across his skin, seeped into his pores. Filled his nose and crept into his eyes, slipping between globe and lid as smoothly as a knife slipped between ribs. Tendrils of it slipped between his tunic and his skin, wriggling underneath his clothes as they surged down his body. He couldn’t see it (he couldn’t see _anything_ ), but he could feel a hand tug at the knot of his belt. A human would have been able to get it undone in short order, even one-handed- it wasn’t a complex knot by any means- but even living weapons weren’t subtle enough for that.

Sylvain’s face moved away from Rodrigue’s, the ooze in his eyes and mouth slithering back to its originator. The hand yanked once, twice, and then the belt was simply torn away, the leather sliced through by the Lance of Ruin’s blade. The tendrils under his tunic surged, tearing through the tough fabric. Buttons and tiny shreds of wool fell away every time he shifted his weight.

Rodrigue frowned at the mess. He’d known that the Lance of Ruin wasn’t gentle when it was in this mood, but that had been a perfectly good tunic.

One of Sylvain’s hands, the one not holding the lance, pressed against his crotch, grabbed hold of his braies, and ripped them away in one fluid movement. His cock, still soft, flopped out to rest against hose. The hand came back, gripping his cock uncomfortably tight. Rodrigue quickly batted it aside and replaced it with his own hand; he’d seen what the Lance thought passed for stimulation and he wanted absolutely none of that.

Tendrils of ooze slithered across his ass and slipped inside, steadily pulsing against his inner walls like the beating of some monstrous heart. Rodrigue stroked himself in time with its beat, trying to ease into the feeling as he brought himself to full hardness. It was difficult -his cock didn’t seem to want to cooperate- but it helped to watch Sylvain’s face and imagine someone else watching him with such intent. Someone older and long gone.

(He hoped Sylvain was asleep, instead of aware and helpless. He’d had both happen when the Aegis Shield took over, and the latter was _much_ more unpleasant.)

As the tendrils in his ass forced their way deeper and spread themselves wider, Rodrigue closed his eyes and let the sensations wash over him. The warmth of the slime sliding across his skin and seeping into his flesh. The tiny, energizing pinpricks of pain as the Lance of Ruin pressed its blade- and the bony spikes- against his side. The pressure of the ropy tendrils restraining him. The pulsating of the smoother tendrils inside of him as the entity took its pleasure on his body. Its touches with Sylvain’s body were limited to a hand on his shoulder, Rodrigue noticed, unlike when Quentin had served as its host in the past. Perhaps the more intimate touches were something it reserved for the Aegis Shield.

Lambert had suggested once, after a particularly strenuous incident following an encounter with a Srengi raiding party, that the Lance of Ruin and the Aegis Shield had been forged to be a pair, and that that was why they seemed to despise being apart from each other. It made some sense, though of course there was no way to know for certain.

The ooze ebbed and flowed as steadily and unyieldingly as the tides. In one moment, it would retreat back into the body of the lance. In the next, it would surge outward, pouring out to crawl its way to deeper and deeper crevices in Rodrigue’s body. It surged up his face again, sliding back into his mouth to explore his tongue and esophagus, then retreated as soon as the next ebb cycle came.

The rhythm was slower than Rodrigue preferred, but the ups were intense enough to make up for the downs. It wasn’t long before he climaxed, his cry muffled by the slime filling his mouth. But the Lance didn’t stop. Its tendrils continued to pulse within him, the overstimulation sending spikes of decidedly non-sexy pain radiating through his body that had him trying and failing to struggle against the ooze holding him still.

Fortunately, it only lasted a few moments before the ooze withdrew entirely, leaving Rodrigue feeling cold and empty as it slithered back to return to the stone at the heart of the weapon. With a groan he sat up, wincing at the soreness in his ass and the aches where the tendrils had gripped him too hard. As he watched, the last of the goo crawled into the stone and Sylvain’s hand, which had been gripping the Lance so hard his fingernails went white, opened.

The Lance of Ruin clattered to the ground.

Sylvain let out a choking noise and clapped his hands to his mouth. Eyes wide, he turned to the side and retched. More ooze spewed from his mouth, splattering on the ground in great bursts, and began crawling over to the fallen lance. 

Rodrigue stood up and rushed over to Sylvain as the man continued to vomit out the noxious stuff, tears streaming from his eyes. He rested a hand on the younger man’s back and cast the one healing spell he knew. It wouldn’t stop the vomiting, he knew that from experience, but at least it would ease the discomfort.

After several long minutes, the retching finally came to an end. Sylvain muttered an exhausted something that sounded suspiciously like “Sorry” (he wasn’t the one that needed to apologize!) before scurrying out the door, leaving the Lance of Ruin behind.

That was not how Rodrigue wanted things to be left off. He’d have to talk with Sylvain later. At the very least, explain what had happened and apologize for his own part in the events of the night. It would be a bad idea to pursue the other man now, though, when he was still in a state of shock over... everything. 

Maybe in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy belated birthday, Ktenologious! Hope you enjoyed the fic!


End file.
